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poetry

Every year the chillers break,
Every year us workers bake,
Yes it is a sweaty mess,
On the corporate ladder to success,
It’s hard to have blue sky thoughts,
When you are sitting in your boxer shorts,
Sweaty arms, sweaty back,
Sweaty balls, sweaty crack,
Windows you can’t open or close,
Farts from the 80’s all in your nose,
It’s like this throughout the seasons,
Wash everything for hygiene reasons,
Melting hot Summer,
Drafts in the Fall,
Frostbite in Winter,
Spring never happens at all,
Corporate patsies, uniform lines,
Swear they had it better down the mines,
You think I’m joking? Take back what I said?
We had a Canary here. It’s definitely dead.

Like this:

True beauty,
Never knowing, for certain,
Vanity is sure,
Vanity perpetuates a myth,
A lie said often enough,
Stupid believe.
Vanity is fleeting
Beauty is understated,
Beauty is natural
Effortless, eternal,
She is beauty

Like this:

What you are about to read is a garbled mess. A mere transfer of thoughts to keyboard, a poem is the closest thing I can think of to describe it. If I win the booker prize this is the piece that will be worth millions.

Is the person speaking confidently surrounded by others, ticking the correct boxes laughing at the right bits, secretly scared that the person sat in the corner going their own way is right. When does keeping up and keeping pace stop us from being who we are.

Are the popular mean to those less socially endowed because they know it is them who can see the mask slip. From afar.

Is it easy to be the outsider?
Not confined. Going it alone. Very much alone. Does solitude make someone strong?
Strong enough to be scared shitless by every day. Scared by the hair thats out of place, the misplaced smile.

Confidence knocked by the (seemingly) confident. Those who are screaming inside, living a lie. Surviving.
Is survival enough?
For the nomadic trail blazer or for the confident fraudster.
Is there not pressure to achieve for both? Make something of yourself. For what? No-one knows for sure.

No-one knows the right or wrong path, the correct way. The correct thing to say, it’s a myth. We all just wing it some better than most. Some quoting holy ghosts. We just all do what feels right (right now) the past is gone no changing that, the future isn’t here just yet, so it’s not available for fuck up or triumph (Both of which will be short lived)

So.. if you are scared. We all are too. Just people better at bluffing than you.

Like this:

What happened to the places we used to go,
All ramshackle and overgrown,
Or refurbished and now unknown,
The places that helped make my life,
Where dogs were walked,
Knees first skinned,
Dogs passed on and hazards removed,
Things left to decline, some improved.
Places change, as do we.
All events consigned to distant hazy memory.

Like this:

So we gather round the table,
Having paid over the odds,
In case you haven’t guessed,
I’m a “bah humbug miserable sod.”
They twisted my arm to come along,
Paid time off they said,
It’s only on the day,
We are told to take our time instead,
Still in for a Penny in for pound,
In the hope the boss pays for a round,
In the hope I’m sat next to that one bod I like,
In the hope that food is nice,
In the hope that it’s not like last year,
When they run out of beer,

We are not friends round the table,
Everyone cept the most deluded know, but forget,
Making best of just because…
Because of what? Because of a date,
Because some of you think you like each other,
Because Miss “office hot” might let you cop a feel,
Just because you’ve had a meal.

From where I sit, In reality,
It’s still a case of them and me,
They’ll blow festive sunshine up their pipes,
Fake festive smiles never to be wiped,
Why did I pay to share a room with you?
It’s bad enough when they pay me to.